Chapter 18
Noise filled the room as someone, probably Paxton, turned on the faucet and the dryer. Rick was grateful—he wouldn’t have to worry as much about breathing too loud or making noise as they got settled. Paxton was a jerk, but he had a brain that worked okay when he actually tried to use it.
Rick was impressed by how quickly he and Martina managed to get up on their awkward perch in the handicap stall.
They couldn’t both stand on the toilet—Rick’s feet were pretty big—but if they leaned a lot of their weight on the metal bars on the wall, they could get by.
Not indefinitely, but they could manage.
He wasn’t surprised that Paxton had urged them to hide.
An adult, especially an administrator, would see any kind of group congregation as suspicious, especially in a bathroom.
Add in the factor that they also had Martina with them, and it would raise alarm bells for most adults.
They always jumped to the worst-case scenario and never gave you a chance to explain.
Still, he hoped Paxton would get rid of them quickly. He didn’t think the bars were made for this kind of thing, and Martina’s arms were already shaking.
Paxton started talking, and Rick tilted his head to try and catch what he was saying, but the dryer in this bathroom was really loud, and between that, the water, and the acoustics, he couldn’t make out the words. He also couldn’t hear any kind of response. Was Paxton talking to himself?
They heard a stall door open, and both of them froze.
Rick automatically held his breath. He heard a couple of muted thumps, like someone had smacked the stall door.
Maybe it hadn’t been an adult who came in.
Maybe they were hearing Paxton getting his head shoved into the toilet.
Rick hated bullies, but Paxton kind of deserved his head in the toilet.
Something thumped louder, and there was a squeak, the sound of a rubber sole skidding on tile.
A fight, maybe? Someone Paxton had pissed off had seen him come into the bathroom and decided to take their chance?
Rick started breathing again and relaxed a little.
If it was a fight, he should probably step in.
Not because he liked Paxton, but because he didn’t want them all to end up in even more trouble.
The dryer clicked off, and Rick strained to listen. The water was still going, but there were no more thumping noises, and no voices. Was the fight over? Had it been a fight at all?
Rick shifted his weight, getting ready to step down, when Martina shook her head sharply. He trusted Martina’s instincts implicitly, so he stayed where he was.
The sound of the water changed, making Rick think someone was washing their hands. Then that, too, clicked off. The bathroom was plunged into silence.
But only for a few long seconds. Then Rick heard a drip, drip, drip. A gurgling sound followed, sending a chill up his spine, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He was holding his breath again, afraid to be heard, but also afraid he’d miss hearing someone coming their way.
Rick heard footsteps over the dripping noises. They weren’t loud—soft-soled kind of shoes, like sneakers or flats. He heard the whoosh of the door opening, letting in the faraway sound of people singing at the memorial, quickly muted when the door swung shut.
Leaving them alone with the drip, drip, drip.
Rick’s arms were starting to shake. He wasn’t used to holding this position, but he didn’t dare get down yet.
Not with Martina staring at him hard as she was, her nostrils flared, her eyes wide.
He could see her whole body shaking from here, feel some of the vibration, but she wasn’t getting down yet, so he didn’t either.
He drew in a long, slow breath through his nose, and caught the scent of something.
Something bad, but familiar. Shit, maybe, which wasn’t out of place, considering.
Only, the bathroom hadn’t smelled like that before.
He couldn’t really see Paxton sitting down for some quality porcelain time with them both in the nearby stall.
Besides, at least one of the toilets was broken, and they weren’t sure which one.
But there was another smell. Metallic. What was it?
Rick’s brow furrowed in thought as he looked down to the floor, trying to figure out where he knew that scent from.
And then he saw it.
Blood. Not a little bit. Not a drop or two.
Enough to make a small red stream along the linoleum flooring.
The stream split, creating lesser tributaries, crimson and so vivid against the floor.
Winding its way toward Rick. He wasn’t sure how long he watched it snake his way.
It felt like centuries. Like he might look up and the world around him would be dust.
But he didn’t think it was actually that long. Seconds, maybe. Then Martina was clambering down, careful where she put her feet. “Don’t step in it.” It came out in a strangled whisper, panic gripping her throat.
Rick did as she said, following her as she unlocked the stall.
They scrambled along the floor, their footsteps loud and echoing, when they ran to the first stall.
A bloody handprint was smeared on the metal door, like something out of a horror movie, and Rick realized he was still hoping this was a prank.
Something stupid and shitty that Paxton had done to get back at them for whatever reason.
He fervently hoped that was the case.
Martina grabbed a paper towel, using it to nudge the door open.
And any hope that this was a prank fled along with Rick’s coherent thought. Inside, his brain was screaming.
It was like he couldn’t take it all in at once. The whole picture was too much. He just kept getting pieces. Blood, bright, vivid, everywhere. Smears on the stall doors. On the floor. On Paxton’s shirt.
His throat was open. The pale flesh parted. His head leaned against the side of the stall, his eyes fixed. Glassy. Rick watched another drop of blood as it fell.
Drip.
Paxton’s sneakers, his pants around his ankles.
Martina shoved him out of the way, running toward the trash can. Rick could hear her vomiting. For a second he didn’t move. He couldn’t move.
Then he was rushing to Martina, making sure she was okay.
“No,” she said, her eyes closed, her head resting on the side of the trash can. Her skin was dotted with sweat, and she shivered. “I’m not. Jesus. What—” She cut herself off, her eyes snapping open. “Call 911.”
“What?” Rick felt like his brain was on delay, everything seconds behind reality, the air slow and viscous.
Like blood, oozing across tile…
No. No. Rick shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and instantly regretted it.
Oh god, the smell. He darted to the other side of the bathroom, hoping it wouldn’t be as bad there yet.
With shaking fingers, he took out his phone and dialed.
Then dialed again, because his fingers weren’t working right, and he’d hit the wrong numbers.
Finally he heard the tinny ring as it went through and he put the phone on speaker.
“911, please state your emergency.”
“He’s dead.” The words fell numbly from Rick’s lips. “I think—he must be—there’s so much blood.”
That’s all he managed before he crumpled to the floor, his back against the cold tile wall by this side’s handicap stall.
His hands started shaking violently, so hard he almost dropped his phone.
He set it on the floor, hugging his knees, and realized he was crying.
Sobbing, really. The 911 operator was still talking, he could hear her voice, though he couldn’t make out what she was saying.
At some point, Martina sat next to him. He put his arms around her. She put her arms around him. And they held each other like one of them would fall off the earth if the other let go.
Which was exactly how the paramedics found them.
—
This time Rick was sitting on the bumper of the ambulance when his mom arrived.
It was so much like the night Bryce died, and at the same time, not at all.
Rick wasn’t thinking about missed work or paychecks.
Rick wasn’t thinking at all. His mind was static, buzzing, blanked white like he was in the middle of a blizzard.
He didn’t even see her walk up. He blinked, and she was in front of him, saying his name.
“Are you okay?” She shook her head, frustrated. “What a stupid question. Of course you’re not.” She touched Rick’s face, and he looked up at her, grateful in a way that he hadn’t been in years that his mom was here and she would fix things.
She put an arm around him, making the silver space blanket crinkle as she hugged him tightly to her side. “Is he okay? Physically?” This question was aimed at the paramedics who were standing off to the side.
“Not a scratch on him.” This came from the taller paramedic, an older bald man who hadn’t blinked an eye as he’d led both of them out of the bathroom. “He’s had a hell of a shock.”
His mom peered down at him. “Where’s Martina?”
“On her way to the station,” Rick stammered. His teeth were still chattering a little.
“Her parents picked her up just a few moments ago,” the paramedic said. Al. His name patch said Al. “They offered to take your son, but they’re not family, and we needed someone to sign the release.”
His mom smiled a little, turning her face toward him. “How hard did Serena fight that?”
“Not hard,” Rick said. His words were coming easier now. “She knew you were on your way.”
She held out her hand. “Okay, show me where to sign. I want to get my son out of here.”
“Understandable.” He handed her a clipboard.
His mom frowned at Rick. “Does he have to go straight to the station?”
“I’m afraid so,” Al said, his tone laced with apology. “He’s a witness. They, uh, also need his clothes.”
“His clothes?” she asked sharply.
“Blood,” Rick whispered. “They need to check my clothes for blood. I don’t think they’ll find any. I wasn’t—” He swallowed hard. “I wasn’t close. But it was everywhere. The floor. The walls.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
Except he would. The cops would take him through the details over and over. That’s what they did last time. It would be worse this time. Alexis had found Bryce—they’d just stumbled in after the fact.
They were prime witnesses now, probably suspects. They’d spoken to him last. Rick and Martina had been only a few bathroom stalls away from a killer. From a corpse. He’d heard that gurgle.
His stomach roiled at the memory. Rick closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths, and tried to calm himself.
His mom was wrong. He would have to talk about it, and it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because when he closed his eyes, he still saw it. He was going to be hearing it in his dreams, that awful drip, drip, drip.
—
As he’d predicted, Rick was in the police station much longer for Paxton’s death.
He had to go over his story multiple times and put his clothing into paper evidence bags.
He wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to do about shoes in the morning.
The cops now had his only pair, and Rick didn’t share a size with anyone in his family.
He was exhausted when he finally climbed back into his mom’s car to go to his uncle’s house. They were silent as they snapped their seat belts on and pulled away from the police station.
Rick leaned his head against the cool glass of the window. Tonight still felt unreal. Faraway and nightmarish. Like he might wake up at any time and someone would tell him that he’d been dreaming.
“What are you thinking over there?” his mom asked.
“They took my shoes. What am I going to wear to school tomorrow?”
Rick saw her hands clench on the wheel, but her voice sounded normal when she spoke.
“First of all, your uncle can run to the store tomorrow to pick you up new shoes. Second, and more importantly, you’re not going to school tomorrow.
In fact, I’d be surprised if they had school tomorrow.
The school is now a crime scene.” She shuddered. “That poor kid’s parents.”
“Paxton. His name was Paxton.” Rick closed his eyes. Paxton was—had been—a terrible person. He’d never liked him. But what happened to him was…too much. Not okay.
“You’re staying home. You’re resting. I’m staying home, too.”
Rick started to protest, but she cut him off.
“You could have died, Rick. I almost lost you.” She clamped her mouth shut as she stopped at a stop sign, sitting for a long time, even though the streets were all empty.
“I’m staying home because I’m your mom and you need me, even if you’re technically an adult.
I’m also staying home because you’re my son and I need to sit there and remind myself that you’re okay. Understand?”
Rick heard the fear and relief in her voice, and it made his chest hurt. “Yeah, I understand.”
“Good.” She reached over and squeezed his knee. “We can sit around in our pajamas and watch movies and eat nothing but popcorn. Whatever you want.”
“Can Martina come over?”
“Martina is always welcome, you know that. So as long as her parents are okay with it, that’s fine by me.”
Rick took out his phone to text her and realized he’d missed a bunch of messages. A few were from Martina—she’d gotten out a little before he had and wanted to check in on him—but most were from the group chat. News of Paxton had hit, and the chat had gone wild. He had ninety-six messages.
He also had a text from Nika. You okay?
Rick responded to Martina first, letting her know he was on his way home and inviting her over tomorrow. He didn’t even open the group chat. He couldn’t handle that overload right now.
He did reply to Nika. Upright, not crying. Anymore.
Dots instantly appeared on his screen. If even half of what I heard is true, I’d be bawling my eyes out.
I’ll give you all an update tomorrow. Tired now. Can you tell the group chat?
Of course. A second went by and another message followed. Anything you need. Call me if you want to talk.
Thx.